


Silt Porridge

by Nebulad



Series: Stargazers [6]
Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hedwyn Spoilers, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: A conversation about dinner turns darker than the Reader expected when they suggested the most inoffensive dish they could think of. Cooking, however, has a way of making Hedwyn nostalgic.





	Silt Porridge

Slowly, the Reader forgave Tariq for not informing them of Sandalwood’s plan for whatever Reader the wagon picked up. The Minstrel’s apology for misleading them had been heartfelt, and he’d vouched for them thoughtlessly when Volfred asked; and, mollified, they settled down by him as he watched the mountain range thoughtfully. The Nightwings had lost their first Liberation Rite, and three months had passed before the wagon had gotten back on the road— or sky, as it were.

“Can you read, Tariq?” they asked out of the silence.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assured them evenly. “I cannot participate in the Rites.”

They fiddled with their cloak, briefly considering going on a hunt for wherever Hedwyn had gone off to. The entire wagon had been using him as a portable heater ever since snow had begun to fall. “That’s not the only thing people read for,” they protested, trying to ignore the demands of their cold-stiffed body.

“What did _you_ read for?” He seemed interested almost despite himself, as if it were contrary to some prime objective. Tariq was never unfriendly, but always aloof; perhaps it wasn’t necessarily by choice.

“I resented being told not to.” That had been the beginning of it anyway, and the implications that even should it have been legal, they couldn’t have done it. _Reading_ was an occupation for mature minds, who had no time for the thrall of passion, who were unwavering in the face of excitement and stern against the threat of change. In short, only people who wouldn’t enjoy reading were smart enough to do so.

He smiled and inclined his head, as if mentally jotting some new fact about them down for later. “Fair enough,” he hummed, looking up. He caught sight of Rhae before they did, nodding deeply as she sat down beside the Reader.

“Hello! I told Hedwyn I was going to see Tariq and he said to send the Reader in! I don’t think I know why? He didn’t say anything about why.” The Reader nodded and brought themself to their feet, briefly bidding Tariq goodbye. As they walked back towards the wagon, they heard Rhae again. “Do you have a song? I feel like, maybe, the Scribes feel better when _we_ do— when we’re learning and growing together.”

“And my music makes you feel better?”

Rhae’s grin was audible. “Yes! Very much!”

Just before they got to the stairs, they heard Tariq’s gentle reply. “I’d be honoured, then.”

Inside the wagon, Hedwyn was leaning on the table and playing idly with the drive-imps. When their boots clicked against the wood he looked up and over his shoulder, grinning at them. “‘Rhae found you! Good; I have a question.”

“Something easy, I hope.” They deftly lowered themself to sit beside him, holding out their hand for a few imps to perch on. He tilted his head back and huffed.

“So do I. What do I make for dinner?” He gestured at his pots and pans as if he’d already made several unsuccessful attempts— it looked more or less like he’d picked them up several times in a fit of inspiration, and then put them down again when the grey reality of Downside food was cast back over him. “And no… consulting books, or stars, or anything. Just you and me, here and now; you decide, because I can’t.”

They laughed at the firmness of his tone. “I don’t read for _everything_ you know,” they said, trying to gently take their hair back from some more curious imps.

“Just making sure. So what’ll it be, because so help me no one’s struggling to regain their freedom on an empty stomach.”

Now, Downside cuisine (so to speak) was unique in the sense that it came in varying degrees of edibility and really this was a choice between a few different sorts of evils; the Nightwings were genuinely blessed to have Hedwyn with them, otherwise the entire process would be much worse. If he worked so well with only pseudo-edible materials, then they were willing to believe that he was exiled for sheer, unmeasurable skill in the kitchen.“You know better than I do what everyone eats,” they pointed out, hesitant to show their complete lack of cooking skill or good taste. Back in the Commonwealth they hadn’t exactly been… well, their budget mostly included books and things to stay alive, and their unique situation all but demanded that food be perfunctory at best.

“ _No,_ that’s not an answer my friend. I decided every day for the last eight days, and I really don’t want to ask Tariq again. It’s up to you.” He looked at them so _intently_ , and they thought back to what their inventory was like when they’d taken it a few days ago. High end dishes— with the best chance of staying down— were entirely out, since they hadn’t had a chance to restock since fighting the Fate again after Pamitha’s failed Liberation.

Gutter crabs were still an option, though… undesirable. They were an old staple, an old, old, old, old… Scribes, the thought of having them again made them feel green. Filet of Slurgh could be thrown together, and then up again after dinner; slurgh was bad, flat out, and there was very little that even Hedwyn could do about that. Silt porridge was… something. It certainly was _something_ and so that’s what they said out loud. Hedwyn inhaled deeply. “There’s so much I don’t know about you,” he sighed.

“It’s only porridge!” they said, exasperated, and he laughed at their defensiveness.

“I never took you for a _silt porridge_ type, my friend,” he continued, even as they retaliated by only just managing to slide his headband down his face. He sloppily straightened his hair and pulled himself to his feet, still grinning like… like they were in an entirely different place. For a second, nothing was wrong in their little wagon bubble, and he helped them get to their feet and they stood together, just… existing, without the burden of the Downside or exile or any of it.

The silence couldn’t break as it wasn’t glass— it was closer to a particularly large, soft blanket that required rolling in before one could get comfortable. Speaking, then, the Reader did a sort of roll. _“Silt porridge_ type?” they asked, smiling back at him.

“Help me get everything ready and I’ll consider overlooking it,” he returned, and they snickered and shoved him gently. From there it was an easy transition to Hedwyn providing them with bits and pieces of what needed to be done, coaching them through it while nearly effortlessly tending to his own tasks. “You’re very good at this,” he offered generously when they managed to strain something without hurting themself. “Did you cook a lot? Back in the Commonwealth, I mean.”

They shook their head, focus almost entirely claimed by the straining. “You’ll be shocked to know that no, I wasn’t…” There was _just_ enough liquid left, so like he’d shown them, they put it aside. “I wasn’t… inclined,” they finished. “Yourself?”

To their surprise, he shook his head. “I was a soldier.” At their frown, he snorted quietly. “Is that so hard to believe?”

They answered honestly: “Of course it is. The soldiers I remember weren’t the sort to cook dinner for their friends every night.” Or to nurse vagrants back from the brink of death— they’d known right away that Jodariel had been one, though not to say that she was cruel. They simply expected the soldier to suggest a mercy kill; Hedwyn’s special cocktail of blind hope and wanton kindness was the antithesis of everything they knew about any sort of law enforcement.

“That’s good, I think.” He shrugged, looking grave suddenly. “I’m not one anymore, anyway. I told you, how I left my post?” They shook their head— they knew very little about him before his exile. They tried not to pry, since they couldn’t exactly reciprocate his information with more than half remembered colours, smells, and other such unimportant details. “Really?” He didn’t sound surprised at all, but more nervous— faux casual, which was strange for him.

“Really,” they confirmed, trying to take some initiative in keeping things clean.

He was quiet for a little while, doing some sort of magic to the food to make it as edible as the Downside would allow. “I was riding to relay an order,” he began finally, “when Fikani caught me out in the open.”

“A Harp.” More of a statement than a question— the Commonwealth fought the Harps. That how it was; they’d been surprised that more than Jodi hadn’t protested Pamitha’s presence.

“Yeah. She could’ve had me, but we just sort of… stood there. I’d never seen anyone like her.” Something tightened wretchedly inside of them and they took a deep breath, as if the pot they held was heavy. He reached for it, but they waved him off as casually as they could manage. Moving back to his cutting board, Hedwyn continued . “And her voice, she said to me… _you ought to be more careful with your life._ And you know, my friend, I’m not the sort to say such things, but I told her… it was worth the risk.”

They smiled. The pot was heavy. The pot was so, so inexplicably heavy.

“Anyway, Fikani spared my life of course; and when we saw riders coming towards us, she just took hold of me and… took off. I didn’t want to leave her, and I didn’t for a while.”

They thought of Big Bertrude and the bog-crones, trying to create some sort of focus in their mind. They’d known Fikani existed, of course, but it was… easy to lose track of. So many things in the Commonwealth became immaterial once crossed over into the Downside— while some things retained their solidity, others were nearly abstract in meaning. The Reader had a library. A faceless mob had rejected Rhae. Sandalwood owned a printing press. Hedwyn was in love.

Could they pretend to be a witch and make the ground open up, and lose the pot and the tightness in their chest? Could the whole Commonwealth disappear? Could whatever lived in this empty space consume the absolute shame of jealousy? Did anything exist outside their immediate perception of it? “Are you sure you don’t need help with—” Remembering the pot, they put it down and returned to the prep area.

“Sorry,” they offered meekly, shame winning out over hurt. “Did someone see you take off with her?” they asked, hoping to demonstrate that they very much _had_ been listening. They didn’t expect his face to darken like it did, or his hands to falter so blatantly.

“No. Soon after I returned, I… left again, to try and find her. I thought I was only risking myself.” Still grim, his face tried to smile but his heart was notably absent from the attempt. “A lot of people paid for what I did. I wasn’t there to raise the alarm when the Harps attacked and…” He trailed off, but the Reader could guess what’d happened. He let his hands get back into the cutting motion before he continued. “A few days later, they sentenced Hedwyn the Deserter to exile. And now… he’s about to cook some silt porridge.”

They fumbled for something comforting to say, something to convey how… unfair life seemed to be. Or, perhaps something sweet about how he didn’t seem to have the temperament for war, and how his involvement in it seemed doomed from the start— like Jodi, but more open about his gentleness. He beat them to it, though, tossing everything he’d been preparing together and watching the heat rise from it. “So that’s my story; perhaps the only person in our wagon who deserved to be exiled.”

“Hedwyn.”

“Am I wrong? I did something senseless—”

“Not _malicious,_ though.”

“Does it matter? People died while I searched for a woman I knew nothing about— I still don’t know anything. It’s been six years since I saw her.” He turned to them, the look on his face both stiff and… imploring. “Jodi defended the weak. Pamitha took an enormous risk to try and avoid bloodshed, and it cost her everything. I was just… tired of fighting all the time.”

Dispensing with words— oration not their particular strength anyway— they moved to wrap their arm around his back and lean against him. It wasn’t particularly surprising when he brought them closer, flush against him to hold. They smiled against his shoulder. “You’re earning back your freedom,” they murmured, hoping it helped. “There’s nothing else you can do to atone.”

“It just seems too easy. I find a new family, throw a ball into a fire, and suddenly it makes up for the lives lost while I pretended anything was nobler than fighting a war I didn’t want.” His arms tightened for a moment, and then he let go entirely. “Thank-you for listening to me, my friend. I didn’t mean to complain.”

“It wasn’t complaining,” they assured him. “I’m always here to listen.” The gesture seemed to overwhelm him for a moment, and he looked at them as if they were light itself. He brought their foreheads together, closing his eyes against the world.

“Thank-you,” he repeated in a whisper.

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet lord I hate typing these out but okay [my writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and on it you can find [my commissions post](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com/post/162182264019/writing-commissions). It's all very gucci.
> 
> And also like... don't worry. I'm gunna rustle up a Good Plot for Fikani to follow like I knew going in that I was gunna toss the romantic Hedwyn sub-plot but like, it's not her fault that her entire role in the story is inspirational love interest. She's gunna get a happy ending, it'll be good, everything with be fine. But let me just say for the record how fucking depressing it was to have this cute cooking side plot with Hedwyn and have it devolve into "oh yeah I have a girlfriend" like R I P M E.
> 
> Also I couldn't resist Hedwyn being Overwhelmed By Reciprocal Love. Like, for real.


End file.
